


Confirmed Mutual Admission

by AliceinChainmail



Category: Black Widow (Comics), Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Backrubs, Budapest, Clint Barton & Tony Stark Friendship, F/M, It's ALWAYS Budapest, Love Confessions, Making Love, No really it's ALWAYS BUDAPEST, OTP Feels, Oral Sex, Porn with Feelings, Steve Rogers & Natasha Romanov Friendship, What Happened in Budapest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-20
Updated: 2016-04-20
Packaged: 2018-06-03 11:46:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6609523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AliceinChainmail/pseuds/AliceinChainmail
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You can take her out of Russia, but you can't take the Russian out of her.<br/>However...you can take her someplace safe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Confirmed Mutual Admission

 

 

It could have been anything. It could have been the flash of humor that was always present in his eyes, waiting like a match to be sparked. It could have been the tight muscles he kept rigid when he fought but fluid when he shot. He was so strong he could breathe and shoot, breathe and shoot.  He was better from the outside, looking in. So of course he always looked inwards, towards her. She was engineered to be looked towards.

She knew that. She had been trained, many different ways, to use her body to her advantage. All of the exercise and combat instruction kept her slender. All of the girls in the Red Room were on special diets. They were allowed to gain enough weight that they were perfectly proportioned. Natasha could eat whatever she liked now, but there was an inner voice telling her to never take too much, never lose that edge; flat stomach, rounded hips, breasts that were as much a weapon as anything she could sign out of the armory. They were shown pornography, then given assignments to try on men. How to get what they needed using their bodies, and Natasha sometimes enjoyed it. Then it was a job. The sex became just another Russian sound that joined the cacophony that made up her inner voice. The same voice that reminded her one piece of pizza was enough, one beer was enough tonight if she needed to indulge at a party for work tomorrow. She was so used to being sexy she did it out of duty.

So what did it?

Budapest. Like the answer could have been anything else.

All for a silly bit of dark humor, to lighten a moment when either of them could be dead in the next ten minutes.

“It’s just like Budapest all over again.”

In that second, a thousand things Barton had no time for overloaded his brain. He boxed them for later, as experts do, and simply replied “You and I remember Budapest very differently.”

Oh, no. He remembered that firefight well. She was completely accurate about their formation, but that had been a SHIELD operation on much smaller scale. More of the espionage side.

The Chitauris came and went. As the process of rebuilding New York got started, Barton opened that box in his mind and rifled through it. It was something he was exceedingly good at.

 Compartmentalization is almost all an archer has. One bow, one target, one arrow, one chance. He learned to block out all but what was needed. He sat on the couch with a cold beer and his notebook. Nobody, as far as he was aware, knew the notebooks existed. He wrote them with a lot of shorthand and code words. It would be easy for someone serious about codebreaking; it merely kept casual snoops away if they happened to find it.

He and Nat both had apartments in the Avenger Tower. He had a rabbit hole he kept too, a place in DC when he needed to be there. The place in DC had ended up being a really nice arrangement. He had an anonymous three story skinny little row house like thousands of others in Virginia, close to the government buildings he had been invited to. Read that _called to for a verbal spanking_. Whatever. Ask SHIELD or Congressional forgiveness later was always his style. When he was there, he had a suite with a bedroom, sitting room and bathroom. The other half on the living area, on the second floor, had a full time resident that kept an eye on the place, gathered his mail if needed, and could keep her mouth shut about her “cousin” that lived on the third floor. Nat had met her, and he thought Cap knew about her. It wasn’t a security risk, none of his SHIELD info would get sent snail mail, for God’s sake. The truth was, his tenant was a woman in her early 50s who had PTSD combined with schizoid features. She was a part time florist, but her real life’s work was keeping herself mentally healthy. She took her medicine, saw a psychiatrist once a month, talked to her therapist every week and advocated on behalf on other mentally people, especially the veterans who desperately needed help after returning from the Middle East. She had needed hospitalization twice in her adult life: once because she spiraled into depression after her father died, the other because her fiancé left her when he said he couldn’t risk having a child that may be born with the disorder.

Clint trusted her. He couldn’t even tell you why, except that she was totally open about who she was, what she did and where it all was headed. She paid rent and bills, and in return his half was ready and waiting, no arrival announcement needed, no expectations to be met. She always greeted him in the exact same way. “Clint! Welcome home. If you need me to leave for super-secret spy whatever, just say.” Then they could go days without more than a few sentences, or they could talk all night. Kitty, the woman with the mental illness, was one of the most grounded people in his life. When he left, again she always said the same thing: “Thanks for being one of the good guys. Namaste.”

Clint asked JARVIS to tell Tony if it was OK he needed to handle some things in DC. Over JARVIS he heard Tony shout “Yeah, just keep in touch. Uh, I gotta go, I gotta thing glowing and it shouldn’t be.”

He shot Kitty a text. She wrote back: _Yeah of course, but in FL for week taking nephew to Disney W OK_

Great. Alone time. Or…another to Nat: _Any interest in 3 day in DC? Going to get scenery change/forget Avenger crap._

He was a little excited to see _Sounds good when leave what need?_

_Fly 10 am, sweats, maybe dinner shirt?_

_No mission?_

_No, seriously doing normal people shit like see white house, monuments, eat pizza for dinner_ Clint replied. His mind was glad he stopped before getting carried away with and _then showing you what Budapest really was, Natasha, so help me God._

So they did. Knowing people with a private jet was seriously so fucking helpful sometimes. They drove a rented car to his row house, which looked neat and looked after. Kitty had put a window box on the front and some cool vine things trailed out of it. Clint left the sleeping arrangements vague. Kitty’s room was open, and of course the couch option, plus God alone knew how many places they had bunked together for whatever reason.

They wandered around the heart of DC for awhile. It was funny to see all the very formal, suited government types and then tourists wearing tennis shoes, sloppy Tshirts and carrying water bottles. Since they were neither, they were pretty invisible, other than the fact that they were A) seriously attractive and the people not dying from walking a whole mile at once could see that and B) always, always watching. Sometimes it became a game. One would pick a person and without looking around you had to say where they were or what they were doing. Nat said “white male, 50s, tasteful white Tshirt that says “Real Americans Speak English.” Clint grinned. “That charmer was at my 2:00 until he passed the trashcan and I lost visual.” Clint returned with “Chinese female with a stroller.” Nat said “jerk. Chinese lady been at my 7:00 since she paused but it’s a cart.”

They wandered around the monuments for an hour. Clint, like most Americans not made of stone, felt the Vietnam Wall and was touched by the names, the lives, and the losses there. The World War II memorial was the one that made Natasha more reflective. Of course she had extensive knowledge of the battle tactics, Hitler’s hubris in believing his soldiers could beat the Russian winters, the rape and pillage of both sides when they were the conquerors. Even dressed in jeans and a Tshirt her body couldn’t hide the subtle tensing of her muscles. Being here made her look for the fight, look for the danger. She nearly screamed when some asshole dared to put his hand on her neck muscle until she realized it was the only man who would dare touch her so personally in the open. Her looked at her as she turned around and started with “are you okay…” and he got a nod in response. He decided to take the leap anyway.

“You’re lying, Tasha.”

WOW. He thought he had seen her pissed before, but nothing like this. “Do you know what the Germans did to Russian women? Do you know about the mass rapes? The sexual torture? The shame of war babies with no father? Do you know how many Russians died of starvation? Do you know how many Russians died AFTER the war that I never got to know about until I found the Internet in a country where the word “Stalin” wasn’t blocked? Yeah, I’m pissed. And I’m thinking about that war, and at home, I mean the Tower, and Cap, and Bucky Barnes, and how Steve can’t even say his name and this was NOT relaxing AND WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU TOUCH ME FOR?”

Clint hadn’t ever seen this much emotion come out of her before. Jesus Christ, who was this? And when did we get to Cap? They were all friends but he didn't know she actually cried for the guy. He could probe or he could bandage. He chose bandage. “Beat you to the Washington Monument.” They both took off at a dead run. Clint intended to let her win but then got pissed she was so fast and put on the afterburners. She still won.

“Not enough, to the Capitol steps.”

And off they went again, until two DC cops, wondering who was running that fast towards important places, stopped them and asked for ID. The cops nodded and said “bored, huh?” They smiled and said “run every day, got to keep it up.” They nodded and let them go. One cop said “damn, she’s hot in real life, too.” The other cop had been looking at Clint but hadn’t told his partner about that side of his life, hadn’t told his wife either. It was gonna be complicated. At least it hadn’t been Iron Man. Jesus, he was such an arrogant prick, and just the thought of handcuffing him to….nope, save that fantasy for later, maybe with Clint breaking in now and joining the fun. That would definitely, definitely be a new spank bank feature. Rumor had it Captain America swung both ways, and for some reason that killed the fantasy. Fucking A he needed a shrink.

They reached the steps, laughing, finally. Natasha knew the cop was trying to watch her ass as she ran and it was nothing. Her body was maintained as a weapon, prop, tool, and advertisement. It was like it didn’t even belong to her. Whoever she wanted to be, she was. There was no Natasha. Which is why the moment at the monument had pissed her off so much. That was not _not_ her. She shoved that and asked about dinner.

It turned out huge parts of DC just turn out the lights at 6:00. Government goes home, everybody goes home. They picked up a pizza and salad and red wine and went home. Clint had every TV toy known to man because he wanted Kitty to be able to watch whatever she wanted. She said sometimes she watched a channel that had nothing but a sunset on it. Whatever, Clint liked having her in the house and she knew she’d never find a better landlord. That, and once, out of habit, Clint quickly went through her journals just to see if there was any mention of his activities. When he was there it was “Cousin home, nice” and when he wasn’t it was “Cousin gone, may the mysteries beyond this world keep him safe.” That made him tear up a little. Who the fuck else would miss him? He knew the team would, but that was different. He had money set aside for her in case he died. He believed she’d need help. Money buys help.

They ate the pizza and watched reruns of Game of Thrones. The fake violence was somehow settling. Then he muted it. In this far, he might as well play the hand.

“Hey. Why did you jump when I touched you?”

“Didn’t know it was you.”

“That’s not like you. When’s the last time we didn’t know where the other was?”

“Does it matter?”

“Yeah, to me. You looked sad and freaked as hell.”

“Realizing I’m a cog in a giant turning machine of history and fights that will never end. War monuments do that to Russians.”

“Uh. Still doesn’t explain not knowing who’s on your six.”

“I turned off for a second, OK? I was off for a fucking second. I do that about once every two years. Congrats, you caught me, yes, I know I’d be dead now, fuck off.”

“No, that isn’t what I meant. Hey. Come here. You jumped a mile when I touched you here.” He lightly put his hand on the curve between her shoulder and her neck. Jesus Christ. It was like touching concrete. There was no give at all. She looked him in the eye and said “I don’t know what you want, Clint.”

“I want to know this: when was the last time somebody asked what you want, and really meant it?”

She picked up the pizza box and went to the kitchen. Then she recorked the wine, tossed what was left of the salad in the garbage and stomped upstairs. One flight. Kitty’s room.

He heard the shower turn on. He went to his room, started to clean up, then went back down a flight. He said through the door “You can’t hide forever from me. I’m asking, when’s the last time somebody asked you what YOU REALLY WANT, NATASHA?”

“My suitcase is still on the first floor. If you bring it to me that will be the last time someone has done what I REALLY WANTED.” Jesus. Her voice was jagged and angry. Raw. Hurt. What the fuck had he done? This wasn’t doing anything he wanted. He got the suitcase. He left it outside the door. He went back upstairs. He wanted to make this better. He didn’t know how. He shouldn’t have been angry, but he was. He had his answer, in a way. If she was asked what she wanted more, she wouldn’t be so angry. He was certain.

He knew what he really was asking, and he had already fucked this up so badly he was going to see it through to the bitter end. He walked back down the flight of stairs. He knocked, so she wouldn’t be startled. He opened the door. She was wearing a cotton sleep shirt and shorts. She had her hair in a ponytail. Her eyes were red. That did it; he broke. He grabbed her hand and led her up to his floor. He led her to the middle of the floor and then went to the door. He was a distance away, but she couldn’t leave. Obviously if she really wanted to she could. But he’d make it a chore.

“Natasha. Look me in the eye. Look at me. If I ask you what I really want to know, and you answer me, I’ll drop it forever if you want. Deal?”

“Deal. Make it a good one Barton, because you’ve used every ounce of trust I have in you.”

He wondered if she saw how much that hurt.

“I want to know when was the last time somebody made love to you?”

She stared at him. He saw the nuclear explosion coming.

“I don’t mean work. I don’t mean assignments. Not the Red Room. Not training. You. YOU. Not fucking, not going through the motions, not some anonymous asshole who jerked off inside of you. I want to know the last time you made love.”

“When I was 22. Happy?”

That must have been the moment she finally registered the look on his face. Clint was excellent at putting things in the box to deal with later when he had a moment’s warning. He wasn’t prepared for that. A decade? A decade of, what? A decade of being a living sex toy. That was evil. Natasha had a speech prepared about not needing his pity and we all play our part but she didn’t get started before he said “Budapest.”

Oh, dammit. Not now. Please, please, please not now. But it was too late. She nodded. It was a fucking rookie mistake. She had the mark in bed, after carefully orchestrating open curtains so Clint could see her and shoot the mark if he got violent. While he was occupied in bed, everything the mark knew about Hydra’s interests in Central and South America were being downloaded onto Natasha’s phone. That was the night before things went to shit and they ended up side by side, shooting as they always did.

Usually Clint saw nothing but the mark. He didn’t need to watch her go through the motions. She knew he had seen it all. There was no mystery here. The mark turned her over and his tiny, partially soft cock gave his best try at doggie style. It barely went in, which actually hurt more than penetration. It was like a battering ram against the entry. She had closed her eyes tightly. He watched her moan and heard saying “ _da, da_ ,” yes, yes in Russian. Barton could tell this hurt her. He looked through his scope and saw the pain on her face. Her lips moved. That was the only thing she said the entire fucking night and it should have been in Russian. But it was English. She turned her face to his scope and mouthed “please don’t watch.”

It took everything he had to not shoot the mark. There was no tactical reasoning. He could never have justified it to SHIELD. He just really, really wanted to.

She got through it, suffered a humiliating offer of cash, got her purse and left. She came back across the street. She thought her comm had been cut for the act and was now re-opened. Halfway across the street she muttered she was coming up, mission accomplished. She immediately dropped off the info and went to shower, then bunked for the night. He came in at three to see if she was OK. He never mentioned the ice pack he saw.

In Virginia, she looked at him.

“I can’t pretend any more. I can shoot, I can electrocute, I can interrogate. I can’t be a mission mattress anymore.”

“Oh Christ, Tash, never use those words again.”

“You know what you are. I know what am and what I’m not.”

“You have no idea what I am, Natasha.”

“Surprise me, Barton.”

“I’m the man who is going to touch you the way you want.” He didn’t even think about it. Fuck it. He took five steps to the middle of the room and put one finger on her jaw, as lightly as he possibly could. “Tell me what you want.”

“Don’t be fucking with me, Barton. I am not in the mood.”

“I’m not. Tell me what you want.”

“Touch my eyebrow.”

Fine. She was going to test him. Two could play that game. He took thumb and very carefully traced her eyebrow while looking her in the eye. There was no way she could mistake his intention. He was going to make love to her in absolutely any, every way she would possibly let him and if she said no then he would know he had gone down swinging.

“My left earlobe.”

He touched it like it was the most interesting, beautiful earlobe in the world. The bitch of it was, to her it was a joke, to him it wasn’t.

“Touch my hair.”

“How?”

Ha. That took a second. “Like I’m precious to you.” Well, no fucking problem there. He gently removed her hairband. He let his fingers run through the front of her hair, and stepped in until his head was above hers. He closed his eyes and felt her, smelled her, softly touching her hair the whole time. She was breathing slowly. She moved in, he could feel her body start to soften against him. He needed to turn off a thousand voices screaming in his head to back her against the wall and kiss her like he meant it. Like he wanted to. Like he dreamed. If it was up to his dreams, she would be tangled against him moaning for him to come, right now, she needed it.

Which is exactly what he wouldn’t do until she wanted it. He would earn it. He let his mouth move closer to her ear. He whispered “tell me what else.” Her voice was surprisingly low. Husky. She was relaxing, she did want this. He had faith she’d stop him. It made him smile. In a way, it was an honor, knowing she’d stop him.  She said “really?” He replied “do I lie to you? Tell me.”

She pulled away a little, checking in with his eyes. “I’ve never had a back rub.”

“Never?”

She shook her head. She looked faintly embarrassed. His heart was telling the rest of him to put an arrow through the eyesocket of every demented bastard in the entire world that had made her life the way it was. How do you live that long and not have anybody rub your shoulders, knead away stress, even a shitty excuse to get her shirt off? All he said was “I’m your man. Do you want to sit or lay down?”

She smiled. “Lay down?”

She went to his bed and sort of crawled onto it like she was getting ready for—he caught the gleam in her eye literally the second she threw the pillow at him and shouted “your 12:00!” and came at him with another one. She launched herself off the bed and hit him on the side with the pillow. He thought _Oh, dammit woman, you can evade me as long as you want, but I know where we’re at._ He evaded her second attack and managed to roll under her and hit her in the ass before she landed on her feet, now facing him the other way.  He growled “is this any way to treat the guy who always has your six, lady?”

“I’m looking right you. You’re nowhere near my—

The word six got lost as he sprang up and used one arm to roll her onto him as though he were pulling her under an arrow chest high, then rolled her again and covered her on the ass with the pillow. “Your six is covered, madam.” She laughed. Like, with her whole body. It was a sound he had never heard. Now, he couldn’t know, but the truth was she laughed that way a lot. With Pepper. Sometimes Maria, but their job made that harder. It was different with women. She…she didn’t laugh that way with men. He eased up, he didn’t want her to feel pinned down. He felt her take a deep breath and there it was. He felt it. The exact breath, the way the curve of her neck was exposed to him, her lips weren’t composed in an inscrutable expression. He couldn’t lose this. It might never happen again.

He traced the back of her neck and down to her shoulder blades. “Let me.” She nodded. He used one hand to start at the very top of her neck and knead her muscles. He knew how strong his hands were. He loved the feel of his fingers massaging her skin. As he was straddling her he put both hands onto her shoulders and started to rub the tops of her shoulders, where the muscles he had felt before were so strong and unyielding. For the first time in way too fucking long his hands were doing what he really wanted them do; heal. She wasn’t the only weapon in the room. He would never give up his bow. It was an extension of himself. But Christ he was more than that, wasn’t he? He protected people. By killing other people. A cog, Natasha had said? Well, he was a very small cog. He wasn’t a war hero brought back to life. He wasn’t a Norse god. Not a genius. He closed his eyes and felt his hands moving over her Tshirt, stopping where he found knots and rubbing harder. In the tiniest voice he’d ever heard her use, Natasha whispered “can you, can you do it harder?”

Was that a test? Because she damn well knew how those words sounded coming out of her mouth. He swore to God that if it literally killed him, he would not get hard. “Yeah, I can do that. Here?” He dug his thumbs along her shoulder blades. He used his fingers, the heels of his hands, working his way down to her waist. Her left cheek was laying on the carpet, he could see her mouth opening as his hands followed her muscles. His hands were making her look like that. His hands, she trusted him to relax and open her muscles, with his fingers, his hands, his arms. He watched how her eyebrows came together when he rubbed against a knot. He put his thumb directly on the biggest knot, behind her shoulder blade. He dug deeper until he could see the pain and pleasure come together as she softly moaned when he released it then spread out his hand over the whole area. Clint was going insane listening to the tiny sounds she made.

He traced her spine lightly, going to the hem of her cotton shirt. He slipped his hand under the hem. “Tell me when to stop.” He kept rubbing her lower back with big, broad strokes. Touching her spine with gentle fingers moving slowly up her body. He was slowly tracing over where he had pressed harder, then applying more pressure as he could feel even more of the lactic acid built up flowing away from her shoulders and out of her back. She’d be sore tomorrow, but the good kind of sore that comes from freeing those muscles. The kind of sore when you let someone with strong hands do lots of different things, he smiled to himself. Even if she got up and walked out right there, at least he had the honor of being her first massage. Judging by the sounds that floated up as she exhaled he’d die a happy man she made those sounds for him because she wanted him to touch her. He could feel where her breasts were as he made his way around her back, exploring skin he couldn’t see. He had watched her naked though a scope so many times, NOT seeing her was more special. Clint knew everything special about her took a lot more than clothing to hide. That thought was interrupted by her voice. Again, it was small. So small. She closed her eyes and said “Can I ask you a serious question?”

“Anything.” He kept one hand lightly on her back while he used the other to stroke her hair. After a minute a voice he barely knew whispered “you know I’m, they, removed, I can’t have children. So, not that but, I’ve been tested twice since the last mark, the one from, from Budapest. I’m clean. Do you know if...?”

“Yeah, I do know. I got tested last year. Fine.”

She closed her eyes harder. Where was she running to? Why was this so difficult? Then he heard “but not since your last partners.”

“Yeah, Tash. I haven’t, there haven’t been any.”

“Nobody? Why?"

“Because you know why.”

She exhaled and her eyes opened. “Did you mean it, anything I say, no matter what?”

“You have no idea.”

“I know you’ve seen me. I know you’ve heard it, and taken notes and filed it and all of that. I want you to touch me, but, not look. In the dark. I want to feel you, and hear you, just us. No show. Will you still do what I want if you can’t see the show?”

He got up at that second and turned off his light. He drew the curtains over the already closed blinds. There were tiny glows emanating from his clock and a phone charger. He could make out her silhouette as she got up off the floor and faced him. In the darkness between them she said “will you make me one more promise?”

He found her in the dark and smelled her, her body was alive with a new kind of energy. She sounded stronger. She was in control and believed it now. Clint started to feel that pull when being close wasn’t enough. He wanted to touch everything, smell her, taste her, be inside her. He said “You don’t need to ask. I promise whatever it is if I can give it to you I will.”

“Then, I ask this. If I ask you to do something that you want, you need, be honest with me.”

“I promise. You’re driving. Every single second.”

Natasha put her hands on his face, running her fingertips across his forehead, cheeks, jawline, down his neck and to his shoulder. Her voice was so damned low, intimate, HER. He knew the second she said it this was raw and honest. “Clint, kiss me like you’ve imagined it.”

Oh, fuck. He was only human. He felt his mouth on hers and every part of him short circuited. He kissed her gently, softly, then waited as her arms came around his neck and he held the back of her head with one hand, pulling her in as close as he humanly could. He waited until her lips parted on their own before his tongue found hers and he knew she wanted this, too. She loved the feel of his arms holding her against him trusting that the second she changed course he would, too.

His lips were trailing down her neck and against her ear. He whispered “if you want the rest of how I imagined it, I have to move you.” She moaned something like a yes as her picked up and put her against the bedroom wall. There was one hand behind her head so it wouldn’t hurt, and the other still tracing her cheeks, caressing her jawline, running through her hair. Natasha had never been held in place like that as an act of desire, real desire for her as a person. She had been against the wall more times than she could count. This didn’t feel like submission. This felt like something she didn’t have a word for. She put a hand against his chest and he stopped, immediately. She hadn’t meant to stop him, but once he did she realized this power, this type of sex, had nothing to do with anything she had ever encountered. She had it wrong. She had never had any man do _this. This was lovemaking._ She was completely alive and it struck her it hurt. It hurt she had never known this. It hurt she had been lied to. It…

“I’ve never felt this before. I don’t know what this is. Why against the wall?”

“Because if I ever had the chance to kiss you, anywhere, ever, I was going to make goddamned sure if somebody wanted to get to you they’d have to kill me to do it. It never occurred to me we’d be in an actual house with painted walls and a bed and pillows.” He was out of breath and practically drunk from kissing her after all this time. “Are you OK?”

She had no idea what she was. She realized she could choose. There was a choice. Anything. She could have anything and he would give it to her, not take it from her. She said it.

“You’ll give me anything?”

“If you ask me to hurt you I don’t think I can. Beyond that, we’re bound by imagination and gravity.”

The sound of her laughter as she pushed away from the wall was magnificent. He would never, ever get tired of that deep, open, true laugh. She kissed him again and this time it was soft, gentle, teasing. She said to him “I just realized that’s something nobody can ever take from you. The only way to softly kiss is both people have to agree. Both have to be soft. Please kiss me softly. On the bed. Please take me to bed.”

He picked her up and laid her down on his bed, carefully kissing her the entire time. She felt his arms above her as he was kissing her collarbone. God, he had beautiful arms. Arms that chose to be as gentle as she wanted. They were made for killing just as she was made for spying. How could anybody this strong ONLY use his strength to protect her? She wanted more. She wanted to feel more skin, more of him. She pulled at his shirt and began to tug it over his head. He threw it on the ground and then said “yours stays on unless you tell me to take it off you.”

Their eyes adjusted to the darkness, they could see more than before but not very much. Clint heard her breathe out and make a decision. “I want to feel your hands on me. Through my clothes. Touch me.” She was shocked when he kneeled and then pulled her up so that they were face to face, she was straddling his waist. His hands went all over her back, down her waist, touched her legs and came carefully up to her thighs, then went up. With his palm flat he brushed her nipples while murmuring “yes?” as Natasha nodded her head and silently begged him for more. Then not silently. “More, more.” They were hard now, and he laid her back down on the bed and said ‘tell me to stop.”

His mouth was hot against her lips as his right hand was teasing her nipple with light strokes and then he kissed it through the fabric while Natasha made sounds he knew were just for him. He didn’t want anything he didn’t earn. He laid down on his side and pulled her into him, his hand now moving up her back which arched her towards him in gorgeous, messy waves of hair and her curves and her _want_. She took his hand and moved it towards her lips. She kissed his fingers, nibbling and sucking as she could feel he was getting hard. She put her own hand over his and said “there’s one more thing you need to know.” He looked at her and all she said was “there will be scars. If it makes you feel any better, I killed the men that caused them.”

“Tell me how to make you moan. Tell me everything you like. Tell me anything. Just let me touch you while you do.”

She took his hand and placed it flat against her nipple again. The second he began to stroke her it hardened and she was making those amazing tiny moans. He had a tiny flashback of all the times he had seen her through the scope, listened to her over comms. She had so many roles and parts she made up for herself. He didn’t want any of those women. He wanted THIS Natasha and would do anything to have her. He saw her eyes go bright when she knew. Natasha knew one thing she wanted. This, she wanted from him and him alone.

Men (and a few women) had eaten her out but that was usually perfunctory, a way of demonstrating the mark wasn’t selfish, even though they were really rough, or dry, or never even found where they thought they were going.

She moved towards his mouth and they kissed again, until she put a finger on his lips and said “The way you move your tongue, so softly, soft and really wet, can I ask for that to be relocated?”

“Oh yes, you can. Tell me what feels best. Sounds are good, but make me earn them.” She could see in the faint light of the clock he was grinning. He slid down her shorts and felt him kiss her belly, her thighs, and even a few stray scars he was able to see. Then she gasped as his tongue gently began licking her clit, so softly she wanted to raise her hips—but then came the second part of her request. Really wet…gently but very, very wet. The sound that she made was more animal than human.

О мой Бог. _Oh my God._ Her brain shut off, Russian was coming out of her like she was 14 again and the only thing she ever wanted in the world was for a boyfriend to make sense of the way she felt when she imagined kissing and petting. When sex was fun, mysterious. Not a job. She found the next word slipping out of her was much, much sexier. “Clint, Clint” and then breathing. No sounds at all. She was pressing her hips up and down before one finger was sliding out of her wetness and she couldn’t stand to be this close to what she needed then not get it. She pulled him up and kissed him, tasting herself and him and begging him to use two fingers, to get her ready for him. She undid the buckle on his jeans then could feel how hard he was. He was hard getting her off. She threw off her Tshirt then felt him back, licking her clit and opening her up for him. She was the most turned on she could ever remember. She pulled him on top of her, listening to him saying “It doesn’t have to go all at once, it can be about you.”

‘I swear, it’s about me, your arms, your shoulders, your back, your lips, you in me. You. I get it. I get what changed. Please, Clint, please.” His pants were going someplace else. Neither cared.

She pulled him down and whispered into his ear ‘I’m wet for you. Nobody else can do this to me. This is only for you.”

Christ, she was gonna kill him. Her hand came down and stroked him, her neck arching and those amazing sounds again. She stroked him a bit harder. Clint couldn’t breathe properly. He heard himself make animal noise. This might be gentle, it might be about her, could even be selfless. Except that intense rush inside his brain carrying the words “my woman. Mine. Mine. You’d have to kill me to get to her. She’s mine and I deserve the right to make her happy. To make her _want_ me like I want her.” There were no words, only those raw, primal rushes. When she guided him inside her the rushes went white and his brain was gone. Only bodies.

She was so quiet. No performance. No validating bullshit. It was the way her hands were running down his back and coming up to her hair. His hair. His face. That was her rush. He was _certain_. That caress was her “mine. Mine, only mine.”

He found her ear and whispered “how fast? How deep?”

“Everything. Against me.” Her hips started rolling, and she sometimes used her hand to tease her own clit. Her breathing changed, she opened her eyes, her hands were digging into his back. It was her eyes that did it. All those other times, perfunctory, the job, she looked up, out, over. Not now. Looked at him in the eye and as her breathing was ragged and she made almost no sound at all until she rammed against him with her hips and he felt her come. She was clenching, writhing, her hands across his whole body at once. She was so beautiful, so wild. He wanted her to come for an hour, to stay that way forever…til she finally made a clear sound as the rolls of her pleasure were slowly.

“Clint, please, please, mmm, Clint.”

That was it. His name. That was his undoing. He couldn’t last any longer. He went deeper, and deeper, his cock was so hard he would never have this again. There would never be another time when he could let go and be the man he always was, just for her. He was calling her name, feeling her legs wrapped around him, groaning and begging her, and the world ended when he finally came. Hard waves crashing against his entire body, coming into her, hearing her moans mixed with his muffled shouts. Her fingertips in his back, his face and hers locked in deep kisses that tasted like arousal and heat.

When he finally came back, and focused on her face, she looked dazed, lost in between herself and him. As he moved to relieve her of his weight, she kissed him again and then moved him so close that he could hear her whisper. Her deep breathing, hands still in his hair. “Is it still my turn?

“I can’t physically move, but I’ll damn well try. Tell me.”

“Do you know why Budapest was the last time?”

“Because he hurt you.”

She was quiet for a minute. He waited. The smell, the warmth, her softness. If Budapest was how this started, then it would be how it ended. He had tried. Walking away from this, from her, would be the most impossible thing in the world. He couldn’t complain. He made love to the only woman he had ever stopped his entire life to surround and protect. In New York it would already be back in the box in his mind. He could wait to grieve how he’d never have this again. He had it for a few more minutes.

“He did hurt me. A lot of them did. Especially the ones who thought I was a pro. You’re there to be used. It’s the deal. That wasn’t it.”

Then what was? Jesus, he wanted to pull the answer from her throat. What happened? How did they get here? Why could he have one night where he KNEW they finally wanted each other. Had each other. Her fingers digging into his back, moaning his name and writhing against him.

“Tell me, Tash. It will never take this away. It will never change that we had this, once.”

“It might.”

“I’ll take the chance.”

“The next day, you didn’t shoot carefully. The formation was right, but your arrow count was much too high. Reckless.”

“That…seems accurate.”

“I knew you were in love with me.”

Shit. There it was. He probably should have been grateful it had taken this long to become a problem. And it certainly was a problem, as Natasha rolled away from him, and suddenly the bed was large again. Still warm, but not comforting. He could smell her, taste her, she had been wrapped in his arms and now she was all the way to the door. How? How could she leave him here, and walk downstairs again? If she hadn’t spoken, he might never have trusted this was still reality. She had opened the door, and was standing at the top of the stairs.

“Mutual love compromises missions. Budapest confirmed mutual admission. So I publicly, academically, logically deny it exists.”

He sat up and yelled.

“BUT WHAT DO YOU FEEL?”

Her voice came up from the landing.

“You know what I feel.”

 

And he laid back.

"Confirmed mutual admission."

Son of a bitch.

It's always been Budapest. 

 

 


End file.
